Mourning Never Comes
by Gyaku no Sekai
Summary: Dragons love differently than men and mer. And so it is with Dragonborn, as well.


A/N: I? Don't know? I was just inspired all of the sudden? These two really wanted to fuck? Also warnings for sort of breathplay, mentions of pregnancy, Miraak fathering himself (it makes sense in context)...

* * *

 _Here in my shrine…_

Dragons did have females once. Even they could die of one cause or another – combat, nature – and so there were both males and females to breed, just each just as strong and as dangerous as the other and virtually indistinguishable.

Unless you were another dragon.

 _That you have forgotten…_

Her heart raced in her chest when she arrived in Apocrypha for the very first time, some of it from fear, some of it from exhilaration, some of it from the sight that met her: a tall, broad-shouldered man in dark robes, speaking as a leader to tentacled beasts – and dragons.

He turned, and the dragon within her rose and bared its teeth in challenge. No _dovah_ ever submitted easily to a strange _dovah_ , and she recognized the soul within him as a mirror of the one within her.

His magicka drove her to the ground, but still she did not submit, snarling. He had not proved his mastery, and though her body shook with the effort, she kept herself partially upright.

But that did not stop her from growing wet at the power she felt within him, watching him command the Seekers and fly away on the back of a dragon.

When she returned to Solstheim and finally found a moment alone, the very first thing she did was shove her hand into her pants, fingers curling up inside her to drive herself to an unsatisfactory yet necessary orgasm.

 _Here do you toil…_

He kept stealing her kills!

Even when she returned to Skyrim, almost every time she killed a dragon, he appeared in spectral form and claimed its soul for his own.

The first time it happened, she tried to Shout him off the cliff behind him, but the energy passed harmlessly through him without even so much as rustling his clothes. All her weapons were for naught as well – Auriel's Bow, Harkon's sword, even Dragonbane didn't touch him.

Yet what kind of power did that mean he had, that he could absorb the soul of a dragon from Mundus while in one of the Oblivion Realms?

 _That you might remember…_

The island of Solstheim kept calling her back.

The Temple of Miraak kept calling her back. She had freed the other stones of the All-Maker, but the Tree Stone, at the heart of the Temple, remained imprisoned, corrupted. It thrummed with power, made her shiver and her core throb. It was a delicious temptation, to feel the soul of another Dragonborn, someone who understood how it felt to have the soul of a dragon, to carry the souls of other dragons within you and still feel like it wasn't enough to quench the fire that burned in their blood.

Sometimes she couldn't resist. Even though it meant submitting her will to another's for a time, she would touch the stone and feel his power overwhelm her, the same way he reached out to her when a dragon fell to her blade and bow and breath.

One day, as she climbed the steps to a dragon lair, she stopped dead when she realized that her decision to hunt for this dragon was less about stopping it from terrorizing the locals and more about seeing Miraak.

She wanted him out of Apocrypha, where she could not reach him.

She wanted him to raise his sword and stave against her, to taste his Voice as they fought.

She wanted him to prove himself a worthy adversary and a dangerous opponent, dangerous enough to make even her think twice.

And perhaps, she wanted him to prove himself worthy for… _other_ things…

But most importantly, she wanted him to think the same of her.

 _By night you reclaim..._

Sometimes she dreamed of him at night. He stood in the background, watching as she fought against Kodlak's beast spirit, against Morokei, against Ancano, against Mercer, against Harkon, against any number of bandits and witches and hagravens and Stormcloaks…

Against Alduin. He seemed to enjoy that one the most – if indeed it really was him – repeating the battle every other night it seemed. Whether it was because he was learning her style or wanted to see Sovngarde through her eyes or wanted to watch her most glorious battle against the World-Eater of old, she didn't know.

She wondered if he could sleep in Apocrypha, if that was the reason he came and walked in her dreams, to be reminded of the things he'd lost and see the world beyond Hermaeus Mora's reach, see how the world had changed.

She wondered if he slept, and dreamed of her as she dreamed of him.

 _What by day was stolen…_

Black Book after Black Book, the endless winding halls and waving tentacles and staring eyes of the Gardener of Men's realm of Oblivion… She couldn't blame Miraak for wanting to escape. Even just on Solstheim, sometimes in Skyrim, she felt the Daedric Prince's eyes on her, waiting to cast the other _Dovahkiin_ aside and claim her for his own. Yet he had nothing he could offer her that could persuade her to bow to him and take up the mantle of Champion.

Nothing… except for the very thing he wanted to throw away.

 _Far from yourselves…_

Yet just as it had with Alduin, with Harkon, with Mercer and all the rest, the time came to fight. She knew all three _Rotmulaag_ for Bend Will, all three for Dragon Aspect, Cyclone, and Battle Fury. She'd helped the Skaal free the Stones and bury Storn.

She spent what, yet again, could be the final night of her life in the newly acquired Severin Manor in Raven Rock, ignoring the near riotous celebration going on outside. The whole island knew she would be leaving to fight Miraak in the morning, knew that if they didn't die with her, they would probably be enslaved by the Dragon Priest once more and were determined to enjoy what may have been their last free moments.

Yet their very vocal jubilation was making it impossible for her to sleep. She lay stretched out on her bed with her eyes closed, breathing slow and even as she listened to the music outside her house, the cheering and cries of _"All Hail the Dragonborn!"_

'Fools,' she wanted to say, 'Miraak is Dragonborn, same as I.'

Her mattress dipped.

She almost sat up and Shouted the intruder across the house, but then a – lukewarm, phantasmal – hand touched her ankle, and she knew.

 _Miraak._

 _I grow ever near to you..._

She kept her eyes closed even as he pushed aside her blankets, leaving her bare. The fire in the hearth kept the house warmer than the outside, but gooseflesh still rose on her skin and her nipples pebbled and tightened.

A hand touched her cheek, and though he was still trapped, his shade was close enough to emerging that she could feel the texture of his gloves on her skin. His thumb smoothed over her lips, then his hand trailed down to her throat, hovering there for a second like he wanted to reach out and strangle her.

Eventually he kept moving, heading further down to stroke over one of her full breasts. His touch thrilled through her and she half-hoped he would grope her, but he still kept moving, sliding the hand over to ghost down her arm, tracing a few of her many scars. The other hand spread her thighs so he could settle between them.

She could feel the press of his stiff cock against her pussy even through his robes.

 _Your eyes once were blinded…_

He kept touching her, seeking all the places that made her react, that she had to suppress into a sigh or shift or low groan. Yet it seemed that hands were not enough for him; both withdrew, and then returned, this time without gloves and joined by a warm, wet mouth that teased over her own before moving down to her throat, the slight scratch of stubble making more gooseflesh rise.

He sucked bruises into her throat, staking his claim for all to see, even as he caressed and pinched and teased her. His mouth moved down to her breasts, laving marks there, too, and sucking on her nipples. It send fire straight to her groin, making her spread her legs just slightly wider so he could press closer.

The other Dragonborn hummed and rolled his hips against her.

 _Now through me do you see…_

She gasped but still feigned sleep, shuddering slightly at the promise of the thick length he ground against her.

His hands continued down to her folds, and he shifted back slightly so he could spread her open with his fingers. She was wet, already so very wet, and her juices slicked his fingers almost immediately. He pressed one inside her and curled it just so, making her walls contract around it.

He continued stroking her, and she kept clenching around him, the sensation redoubling with he added a second finger. He continued to stroke and stretch her, unerringly seeking out the spot that made her gasp and writhe. He had to know she was awake by now, but he didn't call her out, just spread her legs wider and pushed his fingers deeper.

She had just started rocking her hips to meet the motion when he withdrew. She opened her eyes to snarl at him even as he disrobed.

He was a Nord, like her, with dark hair and eyes, so dark they seemed almost black. He was muscular, but not unattractively bulky the way some Nords were. The scars of ancient battles littered his skin under sparse dark hair. He was still a phantom, but only just; she could just make out the general pattern of the tapestry behind him through his flesh.

The sight of his cock was even better than the promise of it, long and thick and heavy enough that even fully hard it drooped under its own weight.

 _Your hands once were idle…_

Miraak pinned her down with a hand on her throat, the other hitching her hips up to give him a better angle. Even the threat of strangulation didn't stop her from fighting, growling, clawing at his back and shoulders, even as he plunged into her.

He was huge, far bigger than anyone she'd ever slept with, her walls spreading wide around his cock. That still didn't stop her from going for his face, wanting to leave her own marks of possession on his skin. He fought back of course, released her throat and caught her wrists, using his weight to keep her pinned as he started to thrust.

She jerked her head to one side to try to bite, making him chuckle. **"Such fire, little Dragonborn,"** he rumbled in _dovahzul_ , then leaned down to devour her mouth. She bit him, he bit back, and by the time he pulled away, their lips were smeared with blood.

He growled, and abandoned her wrists to grip her hips. He thrust harder, drove into her with as much force as he could muster. Her hands flew up to clutch at his back, nails digging into his flesh. She pulled him close and dug her teeth into the meat of his shoulder.

Miraak growled but allowed it.

 _Now through them do I speak…_

The First Dragonborn set a relentless pace, bringing all of his experience to bear on her. He pinched her nipples and nipped her ear lobes and rubbed his stubble against her neck to make her snarl, then sucked on all three to make her moan. She enjoyed having her breasts played with the most, pulling him back with a hand in his hair – at least, until one of his hands found her clit.

He laughed at her moans and cries, but his own voice was distinctly breathless. She narrowed her eyes at him and clamped her walls down around him, smirking when his breathing hitched on a gasp, hips stuttering.

He _growled_ , his Voice intensifying the sound, and braced himself against the mattress before _driving_ into her with all his might. She arched under him and nearly screamed in pleasure.

 _And when the world shall listen…_

Miraak kept up the pace, displaying strength and control that outstripped any of her previous partners. They had made her climax, but the orgasms had been bitter and unsatisfying.

Not so for the one building inside her now. This one promised to be liquid flame, the ferocious pleasure that accompanied her absorbing a dragon soul made into sex. She could almost feel her soul grasping at his, his at hers, fighting to tear the other from their flesh and swallow them whole. It made her arch and moan and wrap her legs around his waist, pulling him down to kiss him (bite him) again.

He was getting close, same as her; she could hear it in the strain of his panting, feel it in the stuttering of his hips. He squeezed her breasts, tweaked her nipples, rubbed her clit, and then she was thrashing, _coming_ under him, walls clutching at him like a vise.

Miraak arched above her, moaned, and came inside her, the rippling of her inner walls milking his seed from him. She felt it splash against the inside of her with each jerk of his hips, and wrapped her legs more tightly around his waist to keep every drop of the semi-spectral fluid inside her.

 _And when the world shall see…_

The Dragon Priest braced himself above her on his elbows, their hips still snug together. She could feel the rush of warm air from his panting, and wondered if he could feel hers.

When he was soft, he pulled out of her and withdrew to dress. She sat up on the bed, closing her legs but not otherwise acknowledging that she was naked in the presence of her enemy. When he was dressed, he strolled back over to her and cupped her cheek with a gloved hand.

It felt too much like possession. She grabbed his wrist and held it away, putting enough of her Voice into her growl to make the room shake and send dust raining down on them.

Miraak only chuckled. "Soon, little Dragonborn," he said, "Very soon."

Then he faded away.

 _And when the world remembers…_

"And so the First Dragonborn meets the Last Dragonborn at the Summit of Apocrypha."

They fought a battle there, in the realm of Hermaeus Mora, a battle more fierce than any before or after. Miraak used the souls of his dragons the way she used her most potent (and expensive) potions. Shouts roared over the battlefield, blades clashed, spells swirled and danced and blazed.

In the end, he ran out of dragons just as she ran out of potions, and they both knew they were coming to the end, were close to seeing if they were worthy of each other. If Miraak would kill her, or claim her and take her as a thrall when he left Apocrypha behind. If she would kill him, or claim him and drag him from Hermaeus Mora's clutches into another form of servitude.

But the Daedric Prince didn't let either of them have the last word.

She nearly shrieked her fury when the Gardener of Men ran the other _Dovahkiin_ through with one of his many eldritch tentacles, nearly lunged for him when the Prince dropped his body – but it was already too late.

His soul rushed out of his body and into her own, along with the souls of all the dragons he stole from her (she gave to him). Yet when he settled within her, he settled… strangely. Like his own _dovah sil_ was not where the other dragon souls were. She had never eaten the soul of another Dragonborn, and neither had any of the other _dovah_ , so she could not say if that was as it should be.

 _That world shall cease to be._

Nine months later, a boy was born to her, a boy with dark hair and eyes, so dark they seemed almost black.

A boy with the soul of a dragon, that had once belonged to a Dragon Priest.


End file.
